


Bonus and Deleted Scenes from "Let's Not"

by Rokikurama



Series: The University-Verse [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), But the period is contemporary so, Crowley's Imagination (Good Omens), Deleted Scenes, Gen, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Period Typical Bigotry, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-08 11:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama
Summary: This is a place to put bonus or deleted scenes from "Let's Not." It probably won't make much sense unless you read some of that first. Please do mind the chapter notes if you care about "Let's Not" spoilers.





	1. Crowley's POV Bonus Scene from "Part of the Community"

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bonus scene from the middle of "Part of the Community." It's Crowley's POV, immediately after he and Aziraphale meet and before their text conversation. If you know what to look for, there is a spoiler for "Pineapple Ectoplasm," but I doubt it actually spoils much if you don't.

Crowley slammed the door behind him so hard that it ricocheted back open. He turned and kicked it shut, then kicked it again for good measure. Well, fuck. That had gone fantastically. And he’d woken up in such a good mood. Now, he was embarrassed, and angry, and angry that he was embarrassed, and incredibly, desperately, completely unfairly turned on. He grabbed the small flowering cactus he’d been thinking about giving Aziraphale for his office and hurled it against the wall, tiny ceramic pot and all.

The whole point of this had been to _release_ tension, not. Not whatever the fuck this was. Not to ratchet it up even fucking higher. Crowley had been experiencing heretofore unknown levels of high-strung. (which was really saying something) He found himself constantly staring at his phone, fingers drumming the William Tell cavalry charge on his desk, waiting for replies. He even voluntarily refreshed his email after dealing with it in the morning, looking for any possible new messages even though he’d gotten them off that as soon as humanly possible. Newt had been hiding from him for days. Okay, maybe that wasn’t so new, but it was a lot more obvious and he’d been putting a lot more effort in.

Back when he’d first been interviewing around, Crowley had been blackly amused when he realized he might get hired to work at a university after all, if on the opposing side of the giant red rover game that was higher education. But it was good money, full benefits, work interesting enough that he wouldn’t want to stab himself repeatedly through the eye with a pencil walking in every day, and in a nice place to live with an active scene. Even an Indian grocery store. He’d talked it over with his therapist and decided to take the job. It had never occurred to him, not in a million years, not in six million years, that he’d go and fall for the living, breathing, beaming, giggling, snarking incarnation of anything that had been Good about the shitshow of his years in graduate school. It was just, like, seriously? Seriously. Come oooon. The universe might be a vast uncaring cosmos of pretty little lights, but sometimes it seemed to have it out for Anthony J. Crowley in particular. Not meeting Hastur or Ligur until he’d already signed the contract, for one.

He urgently needed, fuck, he urgently needed a lot of things, but right now the one he could _get_ was a hot shower. And since he was still feeling stupidly aroused, why not kill two birds with one stone. He stripped off ( _much_ easier to do with skinny jeans when you weren’t trying to be seductive at the same time) and cranked everything up to scalding in his large, open glass shower enclosure.

In his mind’s eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale’s face go cold and still again, him just standing there blinking and gawking like an idiot hoping to wake up from a really shitty dream. That had reached internet .gif levels of loop in his brain, because Crowley’s brain hated him. But instead, he thought, what if. What if instead of …what happened, what if instead Aziraphale marched forwards and got right into Crowley’s personal space. Crowley’d retreat, scrambling backwards until he ended up flat against the wall, Aziraphale still crowding him. Dream Aziraphale brought his hand up, very slowly, to cup Crowley’s cheek and press the pad of his thumb against Crowley’s stuttering lips. Leaning back against the wall of his shower, Crowley stroked himself slowly while he mirrored the fantasy with his other hand.

“Oh, dear. Oh dear, oh dear,” Aziraphale’d say casually, like he was about to comment on the food or how pretty the clouds were that day, look, do you see the puffy one just there? “I think there’s something you’ve forgotten.” Upgrading to that special steam… whatever it was in the bathroom had been the right call. All of the smells and sounds and shitty surprises of the last day poured out of him with his sweat and fell away with the water down the drain. His dream self, still angry, would ask exactly what Aziraphale thought he had forgotten.

“Well, that’s you’re mine, of course!” Crowley groaned. The thumb holding his mouth closed pulled back, but instead of retreating it caressed his bottom lip and began tracing lightly over the rest of his mouth. His angel’s tone would still be casual, an implied “silly goose” hanging around in the air, but Aziraphale’s eyes. Always so bright and sparkling, especially when he smiled at Crowley, fuck, that smile he obviously had no idea what it did to his face, but now—now they’d be dark and intensely focused. Storm clouds moving in.

“Knees.” Dream Aziraphale’s tone brooked no possibly of disobedience whatsoever. Crowley knelt, shifting carefully to find a comfortable position on the tile—his knees were pretty bony—though if this ever came anywhere near to reality, he knew orthopedic complications would be dead last on the long list of things he didn’t give two shits about.

Aziraphale would undo his buttons—of course his trousers would have buttons not a zipper like anyone normal born this century—and shift fabrics around to finally release his cock, only half erect. Fixing that was Crowley’s job. He wouldn’t, Crowley thought dazedly, pumping his hand faster now, even get undressed for this. Not with the other people in the room, his friends. That would be a breach of decorum. This was just. Education.

Aziraphale’s hand would be in his hair, combing through softly and petting his head just how he liked it but also reminding him exactly who was in control here. He’d move Crowley’s head so it was just barely in front of his cock, just barely a whisper away. Kissing distance. “Now, dear. Show everyone how you remember.”

Crowley speedily swapped hands so he could thrust the one dripping with precum into his mouth and suck while not losing momentum towards a very badly needed orgasm. It didn’t take long. The Aziraphale in Crowley’s mind came hard down his throat at the same time he did, shooting out into a somehow dry corner of the shower he’d have to remember to wash especial later.

“Fuuuuck,” Crowley exhaled and just leaned forward until he was on his hands and knees with the blessedly warm shower spray massaging his back. Let it never be said that he didn’t have an imagination.


	2. Prequel - The First Information Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This scene is a prequel to Let's Not, again from Crowley's POV. Because apparently I can't get out of that wily snake's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for "What is Crowley THINKING omg" throughout "Let's Not."  
> Can you call it "period-typical prejudice" when the period is contemporary? Well.  
> This one is pre-slash, probably T rated.

**From** : [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

 **To** : (undisclosed list)

**Subject: Important announcement for student religious life organizations**

**Message body** :

Dear John Smith,

Greetings from the Office of Student Services. Congratulations on being elected President of your officially recognized student religious life organization. We are pleased to inform you that your organization is eligible to apply for a special new fund, dedicated to enhancing faith-based life on campus. Thanks to the generosity of Mrs. Beatrice Z. Bublington (’79), _all_ applications will be approved for a minimum of…

“Holy shit!” John did a double-take, which unfortunately made Pwcca jab him in the eye with the dull black liner pencil she’d been using to give him that Satanic goth edge. You could only go one of two ways with a name like “John Smith,” and he’d chosen the interesting one.

“And now you’re crying, dumbass,” Pwcca said with an eye-roll, but she grabbed John’s hand when he went to rub his eye. “No, wait, I want to see if this one runs. If it looks cool we can do your other eye too.” John was distracted from wondering if she meant he was about to get stabbed again by a joyous exaltation from the other room in their suite.

“John, my brother!” Zeke cried as he swung himself around the thin partition dividing their rooms. “Are you seeing this shit?!”

“Yeah, I guess they sent it to all of us,” John said, and obligingly lifted a hand for the high-five he could see Zeke desperately wanted. Dweeb. To look at them, John and Zeke were rather unlikely best friends. John had never seen a piercing he didn’t want to at least take out for a test drive. His wardrobe consisted exclusively of black, dark black, and darker black (ok, there were blood red leather pants hanging around somewhere). He’d been very taken with the idea of a wallet chain and saw no reason not to extend that concept to the rest of his clothes and jewelry, in loops and loops and loops of stainless steel and imitation copper. Zeke, on the other hand, looked exactly like a pastor’s dutiful son should.

Zeke’s parents had suffered a stroke-like event at the beginning of their freshman years when they opened the door to move Zeke in and discovered John sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting through his “luggage,” easily mistaken for a trash heap of leftover Hot Topic bags. The only explanation John and Zeke could guess for the housing algorithm’s ineffable match was that it had taken very seriously indeed their matching answers to the question “How likely are you to join a religious organization on campus?” (“Extremely likely”) and given no fucks whatsoever (if you asked John) or not a toot (if you asked Zeke) to the part of the form where John had clicked the box for “Other” and gleefully typed in “Satanist” and Zeke’s browser cookies had pre-filled in “Southern Baptist.” As they stubbornly stuck together through the years, Zeke’s parents had decided to think of converting John as Zeke’s personal mission (which was not true) and John’s to think of Zeke as a heaven-sent wholesome influence (which probably was).

“If you invite one of those alt-right fuck-nugget Holocaust-denying so-called speakers to campus,” John said absently, mind swimming with possibilities for what a student organization might do if it didn’t have to spend most of its time fundraising in order to do anything, “our big event for the year is definitely going to be sacrificing you and the rest of your board to our Dark Lord Lucifer.”

“Like I ever would!” Zeke said with a derisive snort. “We should still do the bake sales, though.”

“Why?” John asked. “You need more funding than this?”

“No no no no,” Zeke said with a mischievous grin. “We could finally be on equal footing. Settle that argument about the immortal soul.”

John laughed. In their freshman year, Zeke had gushed to him about the collaborative “Bake Sale for Christ” he’d arranged with the KCO (Korean Christian Organization) and BCC (Black Campus Church). Struck with a flash of satanic inspiration, John organized a competing table across the quad. He tempted the general student body with a “Free Brownie in Exchange for Your Immortal Soul.” Zeke was very put out that the Satanists’d run out of baked goods first. It’d become something of a tradition, especially after the atheists jumped on the free cookie train with their own table. And, after Pwcca had the very good idea to make people not only sign their immortal soul over to the devil in exchange for their brownie but to write in their emails, very good for recruiting new members.

“Sure, buddy. Anything to spread the Bad Word.”

* * *

The first thing Crowley thought when he saw the new professor Classics had sent over to the activity fair was, “Yeah right.” Anyone trying that hard to be a walking stereotype had to be hiding something freaking titanic. Unlike Crowley, it definitely wasn’t his sexuality. To be any more flaming, the man would need to be physically on fire. And wearing a rainbow cock harness. While dancing the gavotte. Not that he was bitter, or anything. Actually, you know what, Crowley desperately hoped it _wasn’t_ something sex-related hiding behind that cream jacket with actual brown tweed elbow patches. The university really didn’t need the press of some pervy professor trying to sleep with his students, never mind what crusade it’d put Hastur on if the bastard was gay on top of it.

“Ah, hello, Mr. Crowley, sir?” asked a voice that sounded like sweet tea, cicadas, and NASCAR. Crowley repressed a shudder and turned around to regard a small gaggle of students. They were mismatched in every possible way, variously sporting turbans, cross necklaces, Druidic tattoos, yarmulkes, and really emo eyeliner. They all, however, exuded a distinct sense of glee. Even the one whose eyeliner looked like he’d cried actual tears through it. Aww. Crowley so loved it when people appreciated his work.

“We all got your email last week, sir, and thought, before we set up our booths, we wanted to thank you for the opportunity and the support.”

“Nooo, no, no, thank _you_ for turning in applications so promptly,” Crowley purred and leaned forward onto the table. He was getting so much mileage out of this one. It had been tricky to verify that Hastur and Ligur were, in fact and against all odds, vaguely aware that laws existed regulating things like “non-discrimination” and “equal allocation of resources.” Particularly since he hadn’t much cared to read more legalese than he absolutely had to. But when the Bublington woman swanned in to visit Hastur, reeking of perfume that drew every insect in a ten-block radius to buzz hopefully around her head, drastic measures were required. The stench had given Jackie at reception a migraine. Wheedling his way into their meeting, Crowley discovered that she and Hastur both assumed that “religious” meant “Christian." He made sure not to correct them.

“We especially appreciated how you sent us all those pre-filled in application forms, sir. Usually it’s so hard to find things on the website!”

Likely because Crowley had appropriated an MFA thesis project, some digital arts student interpreting Kafka’s _The Castle_ through HTML, for the user experience design. He honestly hadn’t expected the other administrative departments to adopt it as a model for all university websites. Oops.

“My pleasure. Just make sure you _all_ send those thank you cards to Mrs. Bublington, mmm?”

The students promised to do so immediately, if not sooner, and Crowley shooed them back towards their own tables to finish setting up. He’d pay good money to see the crone’s face when she got Thank You cards from the atheists. But instead, he got paid to make it happen. Sometimes the world really was a beautiful place.

Dr. Stereotype was apparently of the same opinion, as Crowley saw he was being given what was possibly the least subtle once-over of his life. He twisted a bit to be certain, stretching his back out, and yes, that was a full-on blush of the kind only really pale and anxious Englishmen could produce. Well, point in the “Not a Pedophile” column, at least. And it was nice to be appreciated. Probably never see him again, though. Faculty avoided these information fairs like the plague; it was a constant merry-go-round of suckers who either couldn’t arrange (or convincingly fabricate) a Very Important Conflicting Engagement or suffered serious departmental disfavor.

Sadly, the same could not be said for the pair stalking towards him, dressed in their (nominally) grown-up preppy glory. Hastur must’ve really been cheesed off to come all the way out here. He usually avoided students like most people avoided excrement, save for a carefully selected and sanitized handful invited to lunch as part of the university’s vaunted “open door” administrative reforms. He never understood why Crowley enjoyed talking to the students. A shocking number of people at the university didn’t, he’d found.

“You. What in God’s name am I looking at here?” Hastur growled and slammed some crumpled pieces of paper down onto the table. Crowley knew student organization funding applications when he saw them—especially ones he had pre-filled out—but he adopted a politely clueless expression and made a show of uncrumpling them anyway, so Eduardo (their seasoned student worker) could drag Terri (fresh meat) out of the splatter zone.

“Um, the student religious organization application forms? For the new fund?”

“I know _that_ , idiot, why am I getting them from fucking Catholics?”

Really? Catholics? That was what had him upset enough to storm out here? Oh man. Hastur had not made it far into the pile at all. This was going to be even more… everything than he’d thought.

“Oh, well, so you know how the gift was for _religious_ SO’s?” Hastur squinted at him suspiciously. “We were just double-checking compliance, and turns out that means it has to be available to all SO’s technically _registered_ as religious.”

“No,” Hastur said in a horrified tone, eyes going wide as the penny dropped. And Crowley glued it to the sidewalk (metaphorically speaking, of course).

“Yeah. One of those law things. Equality, you know. Whatever.” Hastur stuttered, spitting a bit, but Ligur was nodding sagely.

“Yeah, ‘s what I thought. Title IX or something,” Ligur said. “I fucking hate Title IX. Uses up all of my budget on girls’ badminton and shit they don’t even want.”

“Probably Title IX, yeah,” Crowley said, though he was fairly certain it wasn’t. “Had to email the whole listserv with the announcement, you know how it is. Annoying. Didn’t think many of the, um, non—wait. Are Catholics _not_ Christian?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dr. Stereotype again. His head was cocked to the side, reminding Crowley somehow of a golden retriever trying to suss out what you did with their treat. Hastur cleared his throat with a noise like he was retching.

“No, they’re not, not that I’d expect you to understand. Jesus. Just,” Hastur shook his head, apparently unable to go on, but Ligur finished the thought for him.

“Do your little research before, next time, alright?”

“Think you can remember that?” Hastur growled. Crowley transitioned to his blandest apologetic smile, the one that had gotten him through a long stint in hellish customer service jobs right after leaving graduate school.

“Of course, I’m soooo sorry. Had no idea until we went to do the email.” It was a good thing sarcasm was basically lost on his bosses, or Crowley wouldn’t have lasted a week. On bad days, he wasn’t sure it actually was such a good thing.

“Here,” Ligur dropped a stack on pamphlets on the table, which immediately fell everywhere over everything Crowley had just finished organizing into neat little pinwheels. “Came to drop off the new gym brochures, but you’d already gone.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, only grinding his teeth a little. Ligur was already turning and walking off with Hastur, who was muttering several uncomplimentary names for liberals not quite under his breath. Crowley permitted himself a small (but very heartfelt) middle finger to their retreating backs. He turned to wave Eduardo and Terri back over, now that the danger was gone and they had to re-organize everything, again, in the five minutes before the fair started. Dr. Stereotype was still staring at him, though Crowley again pretended he didn’t notice.

But this time. This time the Classics professor was… glowing? He actually beamed at Crowley, in a way he didn’t know real human faces physically could. Surely there had to be Japanese animators involved somehow to make someone's eyes that big. Those eyes! So blue that they put him in mind of poetry. Byron, maybe. Keats. The skin around them stretched into mischievous laugh lines, like Crowley had invited him in on the joke. Lips shouldn’t be able to smile that widely and still look so plump and pink and. And delectable. It was a good thing he wasn’t actually looking at the man, or his heart would have started beating triple-time, to be the focus of such unexpected and strong approval. Embarrassing. Potentially dangerous. Crowley turned decisively, fully putting his back to the Classics table. At least it wasn’t like That Smile’d show up at any more information fairs.


End file.
